It must be the prettiest lilies
that grow out of mud
to float above
That spread
In the tender hands
Of Mother Earth

Or is their beauty
only noticed
because of the dirt
that surrounds them
the endless dark waters
the dead that feeds them
the tragedy that attempted to bury them
but they use to carry them

Or maybe, their beauty
Is only noticed
because despite their strength
they're touch is still soft
white
amongst the sweet reeds.

Or maybe their beauty comes from lack of definition
Just simply yet in so much complexity
Existing
Breathing, quietly
screaming
"life"